


Part Three: In which Coulson and Barton get burgers and have a fight

by House_of_Ares, vampirekilmer



Series: Black Snake Moan [3]
Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: Altered Mental States, Asphyxiation, Battle Trance, Berserker Episodes, Blackout Rage, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fetish, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Neurodiversity, PTSD, Paranoid Delusions, Psychosis, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 20:57:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/House_of_Ares/pseuds/House_of_Ares, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampirekilmer/pseuds/vampirekilmer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: When you go on an op, sometimes you end up not being alone out there after all.</p><p>Coulson's got issues; Barton is pretty good at dealing with them. Sometimes it isn't easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part Three: In which Coulson and Barton get burgers and have a fight

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Часть 3: о том, как Коулсон и Бартон едят гамбургеры и устраивают драку](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138408) by [Silmary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silmary/pseuds/Silmary)



 

=============================================================================================

The clock says 5:42 when he rolls over, and the Ranger in him is still and quiet, listening for the sound that woke him up. The heater is noisy as hell, but underneath that he can hear something that's not just Barton shifting in his sleep. His hand automatically goes for the Sig on the nightstand before he gets out of bed and creeps towards the living room door.  
  
\--------------------  
  
He's sprawled out on the couch under his woobie - he likes it because it packs up small and it's warm, and soldiers always get the best stuff - and the sock is wedged up against the back cushion so he can rub his nose against it. It's still wet and cold, and it really doesn't smell of Coulson anymore, but it doesn't matter, it's all imagination anyway.  
He mutters a  _fuck, yes_ almost into the sock, eyes squinched shut as he gets close, and licks it with a raw moan. Using the shooting glove over his palm always makes him come hard.   
The run-up is fast, and he imagines Coulson pinching his jaw open and coming on his tongue, and that's enough to push him over the edge with a groan he tries to keep muffled.  
When it's over, he just lies there, panting, ears buzzing.   
  
\--------------------  
  
It's too dark for Coulson to actually  see what's happening, but that's rather unnecessary given he can just make out Barton sprawled on the sofa and hear the raspy "fuck yes.”  
  
Oh.  
  
He puts the gun on the nightstand and climbs back into bed. It's certainly not the first time he's accidentally walked in on another guy rubbing one out, and it probably won't be the last. Now he knows what the sounds in the other room are, his brain translates them easily, and that combined with the mental image of Barton with the gag in his mouth has him hard in about six seconds flat.  
  
He's never really been one for coworkers, but fuck it; he pulls a clean black sock from his duffel and leans back against the headboard. Pulls his cock out and slides the sock on before stroking hard and fast, doesn't really matter about technique because his brain's still half asleep.  
  
It's easy enough to imagine Barton with that gag, on his knees, back and neck arched; he bites back a groan at the thought of coming all over Barton's upturned face.  
  
He sits there panting for a moment, trying not to think too hard about what he just did before tossing the used sock on the floor and crawling back under the covers to sleep another thirty minutes.  
  
\--------------------  
  
Two minutes before the alarm goes off Coulson sits up and hits the button. There's some remnants of a dream bugging him, something about Barton tied up on the bed naked and  that’s just a little too weird. He’s definitely sore from the workout the night before, but moving okay.  
  
He can smell coffee and he staggers into the living room still half asleep and stretching. Barton's sitting on the sofa, still watching TV with a mug in hand and completely ignoring him.  
Coulson goes to pour himself a cup, sits down on the opposite end of the sofa, and swipes the remote to turn on the news.   
  
"How'd you sleep, precious?" Clint asks, turning to look at Coulson.  
  
"No, I’m not and I slept just fine, thank you Barton. No bad dreams keeping you up, I assume?" Coulson sips at the hot coffee and wondering what has Barton up and awake this early - usually he’s not a morning person.  
  
"Slept like a baby," he says. "I don't get bad dreams. I  love my dreams.”  
Coulson's just sitting there with his coffee and Barton gets up to pour another mug for himself.  
"So, what, you normally get bad dreams? About the military or something?"  
  
"I have the most blissful dreams each and every night, because you're never in them to speak. I only have nightmares when I wake up to the sound of your voice carrying on and on for hours," he says placidly, finishing the cup and holding it out to be refilled, eyes never leaving the 6 a.m. news.  
  
Clint frowns and refills Coulson's cup and puts his own on the counter to cool. Coulson probably dreams of new suits or something.  
  
"You love it," he says. The purple tie is still draped across the the arm of the sofa, and Clint tosses it to Coulson.  
  
“You should wear that today,” he says before sauntering off to the shower in his boxers and ratty Paper Street Soap Company T-shirt. The news is all just local fluff pieces and he looked for SportsCenter but they don't have it here. 2011, and they don't even have goddamn SportsCenter so he can catch the hockey highlights.  
  
\--------------------  
  
Showers are one of life's little pleasures, and Clint scrubs and jerks off again - it's not as good this time, but that idea of Coulson shooting a load into his mouth is good for at least another week.   
  
He towels off then goes naked to his bag in the living room to get into his tac suit; Coulson’s already dressed and gathering his laptop from the kitchen table. It looks like another splendid thirty-below day out there, and he's going to be freezing his balls off.  He gets dressed, staring out the living room window..  
  
"Come on, daylight’s burning," Coulson says and heads out to the car. Clint grabs his coat to follow and notices the purple tie is laying on the coffee table; and before he thinks about it, he snags it and stuffs it in his pocket.  
  
When he gets in the car the bastard turns up Benny Goodman’s "Sing, Sing, Sing", and Clint groans.   
  
“Really? This?!” he whines.  
  
Coulson just smiles slightly and taps out the rhythm on the steering wheel.  
  
\--------------------  
  
It's after 10:00pm when Coulson finally gets done in the remote operations trailer SHIELD has set up at the HYDRA site.  
  
He gets to the car to find Barton is wrapped in a Gore-Tex parka, sleeping with the passenger seat laid out as flat as it will go  The tie is sticking out of the pocket and the remnants of a bag of pretzel M&Ms are on the center console, with chocolate crumbs and salt grains spread around.  He snaps awake when Coulson opens the door.  
  
He contemplates the implications of Barton continuing to carry around that monstrosity of a tie, but it's late and he's tired. He snags the tie, holding it up. "There something you want to tell me?"  
  
“It's a  lovely tie, I bought it with my own money and gave it to you as a special gift, and apparently the only thing it's good enough for is for me to drool on," he says, and it's in jest but there's a bit of a bite there too.  
  
"Barton. It's cheap habotai silk in Joker purple that you bought probably from the clearance at Target or some place as a practical joke. Seeing as I wouldn't dream of putting one of my  good  silk ties in your mouth, this one will have to do for catching your drool." He turns over the ignition and cranks the heater on. Clint looks like he’s practically sulking as he sits up and fixes the seat.   
  
It's been a long day, so Benny Goodman is out and Phil Collins takes the stage, "In the Air Tonight," turned just loud enough to make use of the nice speakers in the company car.  
  
"It was J.C. Penney," Clint huffs.  As if that’s better than Target.  
  
Coulson pulls the car through the McDonalds drive thru and orders them a bag of burgers and fries and a couple of Cokes. Barton tends to get cranky if he doesn't get fed often enough, and the last the he wants is a pissy roommate.  
  
"Eat," he says, and sets the bag in Barton's lap and the cups in the console. Phil Collins is finishing up so he switches to some Dave Brubeck and 'Take 5', loosening his tie and undoing the top button because the heater is really cranking it out now and he’s getting overheated in his parka.  
  
When they get to the apartment, he grabs the drinks and heads in, leaving the front door open for Barton.  
  
"How many burgers did you get, anyway?" Clint asks.  
  
"Half a dozen, just leave one for me," he replies, setting a large Coke on the table and shrugging out of his jacket to leave it on the back of a chair. His tie gets thrown on top of the dresser as he shuffles into the bedroom, kicking his shoes off just inside the door.  
  
The shirt and Kevlar vest get thrown on the bed, undershirt on the floor, pants and boxers slid off and dropped just outside the bathroom door - it's been a long day and all he wants is a hot shower.   
  
A team from SHIELD had arrived around midday to set up a work site and pick apart the remains of the HYDRA operation, and despite sitting at a desk most of the day he felt dirty, skin itchy after combing over photos and bits of evidence looking for indicators of where they might have moved the operation to.  
  
....It’s just as bad tonight, he can feel that skitter across the back of his mind, craving violence and retribution, a need to assert and dominate.....  
  
He ignores it and deliberately turns the shower to cold.  
  
\--------------------  
  
Clint gorges on burgers as he strips out of his gear and leaves two, actually, and most of the box of fries, for Coulson.   
  
There’s nothing on TV and he glances around, notices the pile of laundry on the floor. He might as well clean up a bit - he’s no neat freak, but it’s getting egregious.  
  
Coulson's in the shower and he opens the door; if there's a repeat of last night, he's going to ignore it. He swipes the undershirt and socks from the counter and dumps them in the laundry room on the pile, grabs his own dirty laundry from his bag, then goes to the bedroom.  
  
The sweats are there; Coulson's going to want those. He'll get killed if he messes with suit stuff. But there are also a couple of T-shirts and some underwear and two pairs of socks and another sock lying there on the floor, so he scoops them up and carries them, the smell of Coulson pleasantly strong.  
He adds a little box of Gain and starts the water before putting clothes in and closing the lid.  
  
There’s one of Coulson’s boot socks laying in the middle of the floor, it must have fallen out of the other laundry. Clint snags it and flops down on the sofa, twisting the thick cotton between his fingers.  
  
He raises an eyebrow when Coulson walks into the living room ten minutes later with just a towel around his waist; Coulson’s not the type to walk around half dressed.The first time they were on an overnight mission together he had been pretty sure that Coulson would just sit down and plug himself into the wall for a few hours and then be up and at 'em.  
  
Since they started working together he’s become more relaxed, though the only time Clint ever sees him like this is when he’s extremely tired or extremely stressed.  "I saved you two burgers. And all the fries."  
  
Coulson makes a noise of acknowledgement and picks up the bag and cup and heads back to the room, toeing the door halfway closed behind him. Clint flips frustratedly through empty channels.  
"Night, sweet cheeks," he says lightly, and before it's even out of his mouth he clicks back two channels.  
  
It's SportsCenter. It's coming in hideously and it's mostly static, but when he flips on the captions and cranks up the volume, he can pretty much make out what's going on during the highlights and he sort of hovers on the edge of the sofa, biting his lip in concentration to see through the fuzz. Of course, a Tampa Bay goal gets a whoop, because, hey, it's Stamkos.  
  


\--------------------

  
Twenty minutes later he’s listening to Barton’s play-by-play commentary of the game replays, and the ruckus is steadily picking on his last bare nerve. Usually he doesn’t have any problem tuning out the archer’s usual nocturnal tendencies, but it’s been a long few weeks and he’s feeling ragged.   
  
Coulson rolls over onto his back and rubs at his face with one hand, breath puffing out hard. He stares up at the spackled cracks in the ceiling, just visible in the yellow-orange light filtering through the shades from the parking lot, and starts counting the primes in his head, the steady rhythm giving him something to focus on.   
  
In the living room, Barton yells at the TV again and it breaks his concentration at one hundred three.    
  
There’s a sudden tightness in his chest like a metal band he has to fight against just to breathe. The sounds from the television become sharper, and out of nowhere he can smell the pine-oil cleanser they used to mop when they moved in; it smells like barracks.   
  


_....a sound like cicadas in the deep south...  _

_ …..up his spine and lodging deep in the base of his skull... _

  
_Shit, no_.   
  
Coulson squeezes his eyes shut tighter and takes a slow deep breath, counts to twenty Spanish and then back to one in German.   
  
It’s pitch black outside and well below freezing, the beginnings of the first snow supposed to fall sometime that night, and his hands fist into the comforter because his skin is crawling and stretching, contorting over what feels like too-large bone and muscle.  
  
The tightness and the itch and all of it is in his head, he knows, but it doesn’t change the fact he’s slipping so fast that the lights seem to dim for a moment before flaring up twice as bright.  
  
Out in the living room there’s a yell of indignation followed by a string of profanity.  
“ Noooo ,” he cries.  “You stupid wheel-wearing excuse of a goalie, aw,  maan , what the shit!”  
  
  
  


It’s a snapping sound, in his mind. 

Like a broken branch, or vertebra.

  


  
….storming into the living room....   
….bedroom door banging open....   
.....Barton perched on the arm of the sofa again, blue-gray light....   
.....a thick black sock in Barton’s hand, twisted around fingers...   
.....his black sock....   
  


… _..tv playing in the background..._

_ ….radio playing in the background... _

_ …..so quiet in the early morning, just needs the quiet..... _

__

_ …grabs it, stuffs it in his mouth... _

_ …..Barton pitches and rolls onto the floor...follow through and into a full mount.... _

  
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”   
….free hand grabs his chin.....

_ …..free hand grabs his throat.... _

_ ….bucking under him, not going to lose the hold.... _

  
...hips rolling, bucking, fighting....   
“I said SHUT THE GODDAMN FUCK UP!”    
….hand squeezing him hard...   
….sliding back so he doesn’t get thrown....   
  


_…..squeezing that fragile airway..._

_ ….I WILL fucking choke your sorry ass out and leave you hogtied for the rest of the night.... _

  
…...hand on chin....  
…...hand on throat....

_ …...on throat.... _

_ ….jugular, esophagus, trachea.... _

_ …...ten seconds for unconsciousness......thirty for brain injury.... _

  
…..pupils, blown with fear and adrenaline...  
…..body completely limp under him, limbs must be going numb....  
…...submit, submit....

_ …..subdue... _

…..slowly letting go.....hand-throat-chin.....  
  
“Shut. Up.”  
  
…..quieter now...  
  
Clint can’t move - isn’t going to move.   
There have been stories around SHIELD as long as he’s been there, and now he believes them. Coulson could've killed him, empty-eyed and crazy, and he needs to get away, now.  
  
He’s breathing hard, adrenaline is pounding through his veins leaving a sharp taste in the back of his throat that he doesn’t recognize, the sock in his mouth _ again_ might be it, but it’s different this time.   
  
He works his jaw from side to side a little, flexing against the ache forming there from Coulson’s hand and the mouth full of cotton that tastes weird. He rolls his tongue slightly and realizes that what he’s tasting is sharper than before, almost a chlorine taste...  
  
Clint freezes and his eyes go wider as he realizes just what that sock had been used for last, he can taste it easily now, and fuck all if that doesn’t hit some old buttons with him, reminding him of back before he joined SHIELD.  
  
And it doesn’t matter that his boss just went berserker on him - but that there’s pitch black eyes staring down at him, a hand at his throat, a sticky gag in his mouth - and he’s already half hard, hips stuttering against the pressure above them.  
  
Oh  _fuck_.  
Clint’s heart is hammering against his ribs; he's trapped and needs to get away from this  _now_.  
  
  
….he can feel the attempt to escape and squeezes tighter with his knees, immobilizing...  
….no escaping.....  
….no breaking the hold.....  
….Slide back, grab biceps....  
….hard dick under his ass....  
He shakes his head to clear the blur.  
He's in the bed, counting primes, not here on Barton.  
Barton looks shocked, actually. He rubs his eye with the heel of a hand.  
  
Clint reaches up and rips the sock out of his mouth. "Let me up," he growls, and Coulson slides off hips.  
  
Clint gets up and turns away immediately and goes to the bathroom, walking more or less normally. Of course there's not a lock on the fucking bathroom door - it's a shitty little apartment in a shitty little burg in a shitty little state, and he slams the door in frustration. He turns on the shower and it's not even fucking hot anymore, just a little more than tepid. The nozzle isn't high enough, christ, he's not that big a guy and still it seems like most showers are ball-washers. He stands there with his shoulder under the spray and his arm against the wall and tries to figure out exactly what the fuck just happened out there.  
  
Did he really get a hard-on in what should've been a normal little squabble? Christ, he's sick.  
Worse, he can still swear he can taste or smell come in the back of his mouth, and at this point he doesn't even want to rub one out. What the fuck's wrong with him?


End file.
